The Exiles (13 page)

“You have a good heart, Chantel. God won’t let you go wrong. I pray for you every day. Did you know that?”

Chantel was shocked. “Do you really?”

“I really do.”

Chantel felt warm. “Thank you, Neville,” she said. “That makes me feel very good.”

The two finished their ride, and Chantel went home. She wanted to tell someone what had happened, but somehow she knew that what she had heard would not sit well with her father, who was a staunch Catholic—in doctrine at least. She did not even tell Elise, who was also a Catholic. Everyone she knew was a Catholic, but Chantel knew she would think long and hard about what Neville had said.

Chantel usually said formal prayers before she got into bed, but this night was different. “God,” she said, “Neville prays for me every night, and I’m praying for him. Make his father like him better.” She hesitated, then said, “And I need to be forgiven. I was so angry with Angelique and Laurel. I really hated them. That was wrong. Jesus never hated anybody, so I ask you to forgive me.” She waited for a moment, expecting perhaps to hear a voice. But hearing none she said, “Amen,” and got into bed.

“I have something to tell you that may be a little difficult for you to understand, Chantel.”

Chantel was sitting at the breakfast table with her father. She had mentioned her ride with Neville but did not reveal the details of their conversation. She looked at her father curiously. “I’m going to have to go back and live at the school?”

“No, indeed, you’re not. This, I think, is very good news if you’ll have it so.”

Chantel could not understand his meaning. “What is it, Papa?”

“Well, you’re going to have a new mother.”

Instantly Chantel seemed to grow cold. She stared at her father, speechless, and finally she said, “Is it Miss Culver?”

“Yes, I have learned to care very much for the lady, and I want to marry her. She could never take the place of your mama, of course, but I hope you will accept her.”

Chantel could not speak, and Cretien saw that she was deeply shocked. He tried to calm her fears, but his words did not seem to register. Finally he said, “I hope you will come to accept Collette. We will never forget your mama or your sister, but life goes on.” He leaned over and kissed her, but when she did not respond, he shrugged and left the room.

For a time Chantel sat there, then she got up and went out in the courtyard. She grasped the black iron bars that fenced the house off from the street. People passed by, but she did not see them. Finally she grew angry.

“Why does Papa have to get married? We don’t need her!” She could not think of anything else to say. She could not even think clearly. She stared up at the sky and said, “God, You’re not fair! I don’t need a mother! Nobody can take my mama’s place. Why would You let this happen?”

She knew she was being foolish, but she couldn’t help it. She stood there gripping the cold iron bars, tears running down her face, and she feared for what would happen in the days to come.

Chapter ten

Chantel squinted at the book before her, holding it so tightly that her fingertips grew white. Her mouth twisted to one side in an angry grimace—and suddenly she lifted the book in one hand and flung it as hard as she could. “I hate poetry!” she shouted.

The book sailed across the room, pages fluttering, and struck a delicate porcelain vase of fresh flowers. The blow sent the vase off the table, and it smashed on the floor, scattering broken glass and white blossoms everywhere.

Chantel stared at the wreckage. Before she could move, the door opened and Elise hurried in, her eyes wide. “Are you all right?” She looked over at the fragments of the vase and the scattered petals. “How in the world?”

For one moment Chantel tried desperately to think of some excuse. Then she sighed. “I threw my book.” She went over and began to pick up pieces of glass. “I didn’t mean to break the vase. I just threw the book before I thought.”

“Here, you’ll cut yourself. Let me clean this up,” Elise said quickly.

The two cleaned up the mess together, carefully looking to be sure there were no shards of glass scattered on the carpet that could cut Chantel’s bare feet.

Then Elise said, “Here, sit down and let me fix your hair.”

Chantel marched over to the chair in front of the dresser and sat glumly staring at her features while Elise began to brush her hair.

Elise spoke lightly enough, but it was obvious that her young mistress was not in a good mood. “What’s the matter? You’re out of sorts this morning.”

“Did Papa come back yet?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I was coming up to give you this. Robert came back this morning and brought it.”

Quickly Chantel took the small envelope, extracted the note, and read her father’s message:

Dear, your mama and I are going to stay with her family in Baton Rouge until Monday. I know you will be a good girl. Be sure and go to Mass Sunday morning with Elise.

Chantel stared at the words, then crumpled the note into a small ball and threw it across the room.

“That’s no way to treat your papa’s note!”

“I don’t care! He’s never home.”

Elise ran the brush through the thick, lustrous hair and tried to speak soothingly. “You must remember he has only been married three months. It’s only to be expected that he and his bride would want to spend a great deal of time together.”

Chantel suddenly rose and said, “I don’t want my hair brushed any more!”

“Well, what do you want? I can never please you these days.”

“I want to go somewhere and get out of this house.”

“All right. Get dressed, and we’ll go shopping over at the square. After all, it’s almost Christmastime. Do you have any money?”

“Yes! I’ve been saving it, and I’m going to spend it all.”

Despite her bad mood, Chantel enjoyed her walk around the plaza. It was a fine morning, warmer than usual for December. She was wearing a fine wool coat that her father had bought her. She remembered how the two of them had shopped all over New Orleans for it and had finally found what she wanted at Holmes Department Store. That had been a good day! But the feel of the coat only reminded her that her father was not with her now.

They passed a store with a sign in the window that Chantel found intriguing:
Indian Doctor
. She turned to Elise. “Does that mean he’s an Indian—or that his patients are Indians?”

“Oh, who knows? There are so many charlatans in this city I can’t keep them straight.”

Chantel read the advertisement. “Doctor W. K. Lowe, by long intercourse with many different tribes of savages, and much practice, is able to give relief in desperate cases. Can cure scurvy, bilious complaints, fits, fevers, agues, diabetes, ulcers, cancers, and bedsores.”

“I’ll just bet he can,” Elise scoffed. “Come on, Chantel. Don’t ever let yourself fall into the hands of someone like that.”

The plaza was crowded for such an early hour, swarming with colorfully dressed blacks. Many of the women wore
tignons,
a madras head kerchief. Indians were a common sight, many of them having emigrated from Santo Domingo, and several negro nursemaids pushed perambulators along the streets. An enormous African woman bellowed out at the top of her powerful lungs, “Blackberries— berries very fine!” Another was selling pralines out of a basket, some brown, some pink, some white coconut.

They passed by the Place d’Armes hotel with its low-pitched high roof and arcaded side. All around them snatches of English, French, German, and Spanish made a perfect babble on the air. The market was so crowded with sellers and buyers that it was almost impossible to move about.

“This is a bad time to come,” said Elise.

“I like it,” Chantel said. She led the way down the street, threading her way between the people. Once she passed by a bald-headed gentleman sitting in a rocking chair at the door of the
Pharmacie
, reading the
Abeille de la Nouvelle Orleans.
Beside him his grave spouse was sitting reading the
Propagateur Catholique.
Peering into the dim recesses of the store, Chantel could see rows of shelves laden with bottles of drugs. A strong scent emanated from the shop.

Suddenly Chantel paused in front of a shop and said, “Let’s go in here.” Before Elise could protest, she had stepped inside a shop that advertised guns and knives.

There were several customers inside, all male. One of them was staring down the long barrel of a rifle, and he took his eye off to gawk at the two who entered. He grinned and said to his friend, who was twirling a heavy pistol, “Watch out, Jake, the females are comin’ in.”

A short, balding man with alert gray eyes came over. He was wearing a black suit and a rather colorful neckerchief. “May I help you ladies?”

“I want to look at your pistols.”

The shopkeeper hid a smile, or tried to, and said, “Certainly, miss. What sort did you have in mind?”

“A small one. One that I can hold.”

The shopkeeper motioned to a counter with a glass top. “Here is our collection of smaller guns.” He opened the lid and took out a sample. “How does this one feel?”

Chantel took the small gun, which was like none she had ever seen. “It’s so little,” she said. “It just fits.”

“This one fires only two shots, you see. One over and one under.”

“Who you plannin’ on shootin’, missy?” the man named Jake inquired.

Chantel turned to look at him and said frostily, “I haven’t decided yet.” She turned back to the shopkeeper. “How much is it?”

“That one is fifteen dollars.”

Chantel shook her head. “I don’t have quite that much. I’ll have to get some more from my papa.”

“Your papa will never let you have a gun, Chantel! Now come out of here!”

Chantel ignored Elise, saying, “I’ll be back when I get the rest of the money. I only need six more dollars. You save it for me, you hear?”

“Oui, mademoiselle!
I will certainly save it. And what might your name be?”

“I am Chantel Renee Fontaine.”

The shopkeeper glanced toward the men, who were taking all this in, and said, “I will write it down and await your return.”

Chantel waited until they were outside and walking again in the milling crowd. “He was making fun of me, but I’m going to buy that gun.”

“What do you want a gun for?” Elise demanded.

“When I get older I’ll need to protect myself.”

“You will have a husband or your father to do that. Let’s go home now.”

“No, I’m hungry. I want some gumbo.”

The two made their way down the street, and just as they reached a cafe where Chantel had eaten with her father several times, she saw Neville coming down the street.

“Neville!” she said, and ran to meet him. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Why, I’m glad to see you, too. You’re out shopping?”

“Yes. This is Elise.”

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” Elise said. “You came to the house once with your father, Mr. Oliver, did you not?”

“Yes, I did. I’m glad to see you again.”

“We’re going to eat,” Chantel said eagerly. “Do you want to join us?”

“Why, as a matter of fact,” Neville said with a smile, “I was on my way to get a bite myself. This is a fine cafe.” He followed them inside. It was a small shop with only eight tables, all of them filled but two. The proprietor came over and greeted Neville. “Ah, Mr. Harcourt. It’s good to see you again.”

“I have guests today, Nicholas.”

Nicholas beamed and bowed at the waist. “Come this way.” He seated them and said, “What will it be today?”

“I want some gumbo,” said Chantel.

“I think I’ll have shrimp. What about you, Elise?”

But Elise was looking across the room at a young man who was smiling broadly at her. He arose and came over and said, “Good morning, Elise.”

“I’m glad to see you, Charles.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your party, but perhaps you’d care to join me.”

Elise looked flustered, and Chantel came to her rescue. “You may go if you want to. Neville and I will stay here.”

“I suppose that will be all right,” Elise said.

As soon as the two had left and seated themselves across the room, Neville said, “I’ve missed you. I haven’t seen you riding lately.”

“Papa’s been out of town a lot, and I can’t go unless Robert takes me—and Robert usually goes with Papa.”

“So, what have you been doing, besides going to school?”

Chantel stared rebelliously across the table. “I’ve been very bad. This morning I threw a book across the room and broke a very valuable vase.”

Neville pursed his lips, turned his head to one side, and asked, “What made you angry enough to do that?”

“It’s my schoolwork. They’re making me do stupid things.”

“I had the same problem in school. I suppose everyone feels the same way at times. What was it in particular that upset you?”

“My literature class. Sister Jane is making us read poetry, and next Monday morning I’ve got to recite a foolish poem and tell everybody in the class what it means.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad,” Neville remarked.

Chantel continued her lament while they ate.

“What is the poem? Have you memorized it yet?”

“Yes, I have,” Chantel said, enjoying the gumbo. It was delicious, hot and spicy the way she liked it, and she quoted her poem rapidly around mouthfuls of food.

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room:
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls “for such their needs must be”
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

Chantel scraped the bottom of her bowl and looked up with disgust. “Isn’t that a silly poem?”

“Why did she give you that particular poem to work on?”